


Cause and Effect

by nookienostradamus



Series: Tell-Tale Heart [3]
Category: The Following
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Hardston - Freeform, Harroll, Joe is still smitten, M/M, Maxston, Mentions of self-harm, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Ryan is still a bad bad man, Seriously bad poetry, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan goes further down the rabbit hole for Joe...and Joe welcomes him with open arms. Max and Mike are increasingly caught up and falling prey to Ryan's eroding facade. </p>
<p>Slight AU, but contains events from S2, E08 and E09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause and Effect

**Author's Note:**

> " _I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity._ " - Edgar Allan Poe
> 
>  
> 
> FYI: there's Ryan/Mike in this one. It's consensual, but it's not remotely happy or fluffy, so be warned.
> 
> Are there adequate words in any language to describe just how amazing my beta, co-conspirator, and fellow guilty pleasurist [Portrait_of_a_Fool](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool) is? No. No, there are not. She has seen this piece through every frustrating iteration.
> 
> I'd also like to give a shout-out to a few equally rabid 'Following' fans. [Startedwith1Whisper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Startedwith1Whisper/pseuds/Startedwith1Whisper), [Penemuel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Penemuel), [patrickian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/patrickian): y'all are hella fun.

He had thought about putting a stop to it, about reining the kid in for his own good. But that changed the moment the arc of the heavy steel hammer slung back droplets from the ruin that had once been Arthur Strauss’s hand. Then Ryan smiled instead. 

Mike was flushed and trembling; he still got skewered by his own adrenaline, but the effect would drain out of him more easily with a little practice. Then he could channel it into precision and patience. 

As if he could tell Ryan had been thinking about him, Mike looked over at him, seeking permission. His cheek and temple were tattooed with points of red after his last upswing. Hopefully even a practiced killer like Dr. Strauss would be too hazed by the agony of his smashed fingers to notice Mike’s hesitation.

“Aww,” Ryan chimed in, voice sugary with false sentiment. “You’ve got something on your face, there. Lemme get that for you.” He reached forward to dab at the spray on Mike’s cheek.

Mike leaned away from the touch on instinct.

“Don’t worry,” Ryan told him in a low voice, poking with his other hand at the pile of chewed-up flesh at the end of Arthur’s right arm, earning another strangled scream. “I’m not going to bite you. You’re on my team.” 

He brushed the blood across Mike’s skin so it winged up in a translucent wash toward his cheekbone. The color nearly disappeared in Mike’s fervent blush.

He drew his hand back, showing Mike the bright redness that seeped into the whorls of his fingerprint, then shoved the stained digit toward Arthur’s pain-glazed eyes. Ryan took special pleasure in that; the doctor’s own thumb was hanging limp by a thread of gristle, the bone splintered by the force of the hammer.

“Shit,” Mike said, taking the hint and playing along. “That stuff sticks, too.”

“You don’t want to fuck up Mike’s pretty face any more, do you?” Ryan asked Arthur. “I know _he_ doesn’t.”

“I might,” said Mike.

“Now that’s dedication,” Ryan said, talking to Arthur once again. 

“I told you,” Arthur said through clenched teeth. Involuntary tears had sprung up at the corners of his eyes and slid through the crinkled skin into his sideburns. “I haven’t seen Joe since after the lighthouse. Do you honestly think he’s stupid enough to tell me where he was going? You can break my other hand. I don’t know.”

Mike, all eagerness and rage, raised the hammer again.

It was satisfying to watch Arthur flinch in the restraints. Ryan absently brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked the blood away. 

That time, the old man did notice. Tempered by excruciating pain, Arthur’s smile was more of a grimace. “Well, now, Mr. Hardy,” he said in a pinched voice. “I had no idea.”

Ryan narrowed his eyes, then nodded to Mike, who huffed out a breath before bringing the hammer down again. Ryan would have to have a chat with Mike about his tells. The hammer struck the metal of the table this time, and Arthur half-choked on his scream. 

“We’re not talking about me,” Ryan said. “We’re talking about Joe Carroll.”

“Jesus Christ--what do you want me to tell you?”

“Anything,” Mike said, a thin rivulet of blood wending in an entrancing half-spiral down the hammer’s handle and slipping into the curve of his nail bed. 

_These were the things Ryan noticed._

“Did he talk to anyone while he was here?” asked Ryan.

“A source from the FBI,” said Arthur. “Some woman.”

“A _woman_?” Ryan asked. He turned to Mike. “Well, that narrows down the field. Go ahead and ditch that. Wipe it down first.” Speaking to Arthur once again, Ryan said, “I’m going to take a wild guess and say no surgery for you for a while. You can hang out here until your little murder bitch wakes up. If I were you, I’d keep him off the radar, too. Just a suggestion.”

Using the tail of his shirt, Mike wiped down and tossed away the hammer. 

Even over the racket it made on the tile floor Ryan could hear Arthur’s sigh of relief.

Mike followed him out of the basement room. “Ryan?” 

“Yeah?” Walking up the stairs, Ryan couldn’t help but notice he was half-hard. 

“What did he mean?” Mike asked. “Strauss said, ‘I had no idea.’ What did he mean by that?”

Ryan didn’t break stride. “He knows I’m not the only one who’ll do what’s necessary to take Joe Carroll down.” The footsteps behind him stopped. Ryan turned.

Mike’s expression was perturbed.

“Don’t worry,” said Ryan, putting a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “You’re not turning into me. That was your dad talking in there. In any case, you saw what that fucker was going to do with Carrie. You do it because you have to. You don’t need to enjoy it.”

Mike nodded. After a pause he said, “Do you think I should ditch the shirt?”

Ryan laughed. “Mikey, are you coming on to me?” 

Silence.

“I’m fucking around,” Ryan said. “No, we should take it with us.”

“Let me at least wipe down my face,” said Mike.

“I dunno. That’s a good look for you.”

“Fucking around again,” Mike said, though the slight lift in tone on the last syllable suggested a question.

Ryan grinned, white teeth on full display. “That’s right,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get Max and get the hell out of here.”

***

Max said she would take Carrie back to her apartment. His niece knew a good enough part of the whole sordid story of that drunken night last year, and she offered to drive Carrie before it could even be debated. Ryan didn’t want to sit in silence next to the reporter for an hour imagining the stumps of her ankles soaking his carpets with blood.

Max, Mike, and Ryan would all rendezvous back at Ryan’s place later. But for now, he was alone with his thoughts.

_I think we’ll start with her feet._

The fact that Joe had a mentor, a teacher, and had run to him after the incident at the lighthouse rankled Ryan just a little. Okay, maybe more than a little, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. Joe had been understandably hurt by the turn of events, but Ryan couldn’t help thinking that it was because his supposed death had been so impersonal. Joe might have been content to die bleeding out in Ryan’s arms, even if Ryan had struck the fatal blow. 

Ryan might never tell Joe, but he had bolted because what he had seen inside the lighthouse scared him. It scared him badly. He had looked at Claire in her suffering and felt impassive. The woman he ostensibly loved failed to spark pity at the last. But Joe...leaking life from a dozen wounds, reaching out; that had stirred him. Ryan had heard Joe’s words--the story of their beginning falling from those lips and punctuated by those bloody hands--and the thoughts that arose terrified him. 

He insisted to himself and others that Joe survived in part out of guilt that he had failed to rise to the challenge Joe posed. He had denied the invitation, and until Mandy came along Ryan hadn’t even dared to hope there would be another one. Soaked with booze and stumbling through a world that held the possibility of no Joe Carroll, he had to believe that all of the events since that first drink in Joe’s study had been driving him toward the meeting in the cabin. 

Joe was just as Ryan remembered, if not more concentrated, boiled down to his essence. He had never made any secret of his fond (if horrifying) tributes to Ryan, but there in the snowy woods he’d done more than unmask himself. He’d let Ryan capture him, hurt him, _fuck_ him, and in doing so coaxed out of its dark corner the part of Ryan that had shaken him up so thoroughly at the lighthouse the year before.

No, that wasn’t quite right, either. There had been no little darkness waiting to be drawn out. Joe had simply closed the door on the final sliver of light.

So as much as Arthur’s existence bothered him, it was the fact that he’d said Joe wasn’t even his best student that pissed Ryan off the most. He pushed down on the gas pedal and wished that he’d let Mike start in on the other hand after all.

Later, from his “war room” in the condo, Ryan heard Mike and Max come in. He didn’t go out to greet them, and neither of them knocked on his door. It was just as well. He knew with absolute certainty what Mike was feeling: that beautiful rush of power and compulsion. The kid had needed reassurance that his actions were justified, but Ryan could see he had enjoyed reducing Arthur Strauss’s hand to hamburger.

After the first few times, the excitement takes hours to subside. It has you squirming in your pants to wreck something or punch something or fuck something. Get falling-down wasted if none of those was an option. Ryan sort of missed that seemingly endless high. And Max was looking a little too antsy to let it lie, as well. Ryan had always been good at drawing a bead on people’s intentions, though until recently the exception to that was a huge selective blind spot when it came to Joe Carroll. 

So let the kids have fun, he thought. It wasn’t like Ryan hadn’t been doing the same.

Sure enough, when he poked his head out of the room later, little Mikey Weston was on the couch with his pants around his ankles and Max’s long, white legs wrapped around his waist. Ryan shook his head, smiled, and closed the door.

***

There was no awkwardness over coffee the next morning. Max inherited the Hardy family trait of consistent stoic professionalism, and if Weston was going to go moony-eyed over her, he certainly wasn’t going to do it in front of Hard-Ass Uncle Ryan. Sneaking looks over the rim of his mug, pretending nonchalance, Ryan did see that neither of them seemed shaken up by the events at Strauss’s mansion. That was good. 

It helped matters that Strauss was a _bad man_. Law enforcement--and, hell, humans in general--had cultivated a long tradition of discounting extreme measures when it came to bad men. It was a sort of conditioning, real B.F. Skinner brainwash bullshit that might have been laughed off if not for the fact that it worked. The way lab geeks moved up from fruit flies to worms to mice. Something with a face, a little more personal. Pretty soon you’re lopping off a dog’s paw with hot wires and no anesthetic. 

Human history would be a lot less convoluted, Ryan thought, if there were as many people willing to push past the limits as there were limits that needed pushing.

On reflection, they should have trashed Strauss’s little kill room. It was dry, impersonal, like a movie set. Definitely could have used some jangling up. The good doctor probably had his little Professor Snape-looking protégé scurry around behind him with a rag and a bucket of bleach to preserve the aesthetic. Compared to the wild, expressionistic smears on the table in Joe’s room at Lily Gray’s manor house...well, there was no comparison. There was no room for sterility in death. It spoke of gauze and linoleum and disinfectants. Hospitals. Not the way that Ryan, or any sane person he could imagine, would want to go out. 

_Don’t flip a switch then shuffle me off through some discreet back door so the plebes can’t see. Blow my heart out of my chest and onto their faces instead. My only regret will be that I won’t be alive to watch._

“You look like you’re deep in thought,” Max said, looking at Ryan but grabbing Mike’s coffee cup from under his nose and dumping the cold dregs into the sink. 

"Hey!" Mike said.

“Don’t get all girly on me, now,” Ryan told Max, winking.

She laughed. “What are you thiiiiiiink-iiiiiing?” she whined, a parody.

Mike’s laugh was a little too loud, a little too sudden. 

“So what’s on the itinerary today?” Ryan asked. Throw them a little quiz, make them perk up and start grinding the wheels. 

Mike sniffed. "Woman? FBI? Any of that ring a bell?”

“You’re on top of things lately,” Ryan said. He couldn’t resist. 

To Mike’s eternal credit, he didn’t flinch, but in the periphery Ryan might have seen Max’s mouth give a slight downward twist. 

“I’m starved,” she said, and the sour expression was gone.

“I think there’s some leftover Chinese in the fridge,” Mike said.

“Fuck you, Weston,” said Ryan.

“Oh, shit,” Max said, her eyes going wide above an open-mouthed grin.

That one thumped Ryan in the pacemaker a little bit. It was the exact same expression that had lit up her face every time he visited his brother’s place when Max was little. 

“What?” he asked.

“Is that diner still open? The one a couple blocks down?” she asked.

“The Alfonse?” asked Ryan. “Yeah. I bet they’re still using the same mugs, too.” He turned to Mike, pointing at the rim of his own coffee cup. “Permanent lipstick marks.”

Mike made a disgusted face.

“No!” Max yelled. “Their hash browns are the best. I mean, _orgasmic_.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Ryan said. 

_Poke, poke, poke. It was just a little too fun._

This time, Mike blushed. 

“It’s worth the lipstick,” Max said to Mike. “Come on.”

“I’m going to stay here for a while,” Ryan said. “Clean up.”

“Eat something, will you?” Max said. 

“There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge,” said Ryan, raising his cup in mock salute to Mike. 

“Ha, ha,” said Max, rolling her eyes. She shrugged on her jacket and tossed Mike’s over to him.

“You kids have fun,” Ryan said. 

“You got it, Uncle Ryan,” Mike called from the doorway.

“Ha, ha,” said Ryan, more to himself than anyone. 

In truth, he was a little hungry, but it would have to wait until he came back. Hunger gave him an edge; it seemed cliché but it was true. Not that he needed to be particularly sharp to deal with Carrie Cooke. Just more with it than last time. If Ryan was honest with himself, it still pissed him off. Not so much being taken advantage of, or even letting down his guard, but letting Carrie into the place in his mind where he kept Joe. It was a place he guarded with extreme jealousy, and he had leaked it all over someone unworthy because he’d been in a haze of booze and pussy. 

It wasn’t until that point that Ryan realized he hadn’t had a drink since the night with Joe in Lily Gray’s place. The urge just hadn’t been there. Ryan knew his own M.O. better than that, though. He was exactly the type to exchange one drug for another.

The thought made him laugh. He shook his head, tossed back the last of his coffee, and set the mug down hard. 

Several months ago in the depths of his whiskey-soaked doubt, at least Ryan hadn’t been so out of his head that he blanked on the location of Carrie’s building. He supposed old FBI habits died particularly hard, that they were less vulnerable to the obliterating effects of the binge cycle. Or at least the last things to go. 

Ryan knocked on the door.

He was pleased to see that he still felt the little bump of pre-conflict anticipation that pushed him into bulldozer mode on the downslope. Joe’s persuasion was quiet, insidious. Ryan had always been subtle as a hammer. 

_Hammer._

He had to suppress a smile at that thought, feeling a little flush of secondhand pride remembering the way Mike threw off the reins in Strauss’s kill room. Sure, he had been horrified as anyone watching Lily and Mark Gray kill Mike’s dad. But with the apron of blood that had unfurled down the elder Weston’s chest he was probably the only one in the room who saw at its ragged edge the end of Mike’s restraint.

_A necessary thing. There were so many necessary things._

Ryan set his expression and knocked again. He figured she would still be pretty rattled. “Carrie? It’s Ryan. You can open the door. I just wanted to check in on you.”

The door opened too quickly for her to have been very far. He could almost see her debating whether to even look through the peephole in case she was greeted by the shoulder of a thug blowing the door off its hinges. 

“Ryan.” She said his name like he had hauled her on board his freighter from the debris of shipwreck.

“How are you?”

“Well,” she said. “I’m still sort of numb. I’m sure it’ll hit one of these days.”

Ryan nodded. “Sometimes it takes a while to process. Where’s your police detail?”

“I told them to go home.” She closed the door behind them and fastened the chain lock.

“Seriously?

Carrie smirked. “It’s my job to watch other people. I don’t like people watching me.”

“I can’t decide if I think you’re brave or stupid,” said Ryan. “What if someone comes after you again?”

“Well,” she said, smiling, putting a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, “I guess that’s why I’ve got you to protect me.”

“Nobody’s safe until Joe Carroll is dead,” he told her. 

“Look, he was alive all this time. If he wanted to come after me he would have. It was just a fluke that I was at Strauss’s place.”

“Not a fluke,” said Ryan. “You followed _me_.”

“That’s because you’re the one that Joe wants,” Carrie said.

“I know,” Ryan said, scratching at his nape and looking down at his feet. It was all very aw-shucks, and damned if he couldn’t sell it. “And that’s why I need to ask you a favor.”

“Oh, no,” she said, her face going hard. “No, no, no. I am not sitting on this story.”

“Just for a little while, Carrie. The way I see it, you kind of owe me."

Carrie shook her head. There was a glint of the old ruthless bitch in her still-frightened eyes. “Come on, Ryan. You know exactly what happens when you, or anyone, asks me not to do my job.”

“You do the opposite,” Ryan said.

She smiled. “I was a stubborn kid. Never grew out of it.”

“Perfect for a reporter,” said Ryan. 

She nodded.

“So tell me,” he said. “Would you sit on a story if it meant getting handed something bigger down the line? I mean Pulitzer big.”

The little spark of interest in her face told Ryan he’d said one of the magic words.

“What is it?”

Ryan laughed. “Uh-uh. The only thing I’m telling you right now is that it’s big. Way bigger than Joe Carroll’s little resurrection.”

Carrie fell silent for a moment, chewing the idea. “I’d bite,” she said, “if I didn’t think somewhere in the rational part of my head that you were trying to screw me over.”

Ryan placed an open hand over his heart. “This to the guy who saved your life.”

“As I recall, your little buddies saved _both_ of us.”

He didn’t bother to argue the point. “Yeah, okay. I was pissed. You fucked me.”

“In a lot of ways,” Carrie said. 

Ryan had to fight the urge to curl his hands into fists. “But I think bygones are bygones, officially, when you’ve been this close to having your feet hacked off by a serial killer.”

“You were worried about me,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan asked, keeping up the false-wounded front. “Of course I was. Maybe you could remember every once in a while that I’m one of the good guys. I’m trying like hell to stop Joe Carroll and everyone associated with his little murder club. People like Arthur Strauss.”

Carrie took a deep breath when Ryan said Strauss’s name.

Ryan took a step toward her. “So, what do you say? Help the good guys? Just this once. I swear to God it’ll pay off for all of us in the long run.”

Carrie’s nod was slight, then she contradicted it with her words. “No dice, Ryan. Sorry. This is way too hot. I am literally the only person with an inside line.”

“You wouldn’t have a damn thing if Strauss had taken you apart like a doll, Carrie.”

“I think ‘would have, should have’ is more _your_ territory.”

“You’ll tip him off,” Ryan said, feeling the tendons in his neck and back rising to tense attention. “Joe and anyone protecting him. He’ll disappear just like before, and it will be your fault. How do you feel about that?”

She squared her stance and looked up at him. “Speak truth to power, Ryan.”

Almost before he realized it he was sending a right hook around to connect hard with her cheekbone.

Carrie stumbled, turned almost sideways by the blow, then she righted herself and brought a shaking hand up to her cheek, too stunned to cry out. 

Ryan expected her to collapse in tears, so when she pulled the steak knife out of the knife block and slashed at his belly, he was caught so far off guard that the blade missed him by a bare half inch. He had to give her a little credit for that.

He dodged around her as she raised her arm for an overhead strike and grabbed the first object to hand, which happened to be a red enamel toaster. He yanked it out of the wall and held it up in front of his face. Carrie’s knuckles cracked against it and she almost dropped the knife.

“You’re fucking crazy,” she said, low and venomous. “You’re just as crazy as he is.”

Whether she was talking about Strauss or Joe, it didn’t really matter. It set Ryan’s blood boiling. Dodging another jab with the knife, he wrapped the cord around his palm and ripped it out of the body of the toaster, letting the appliance go clattering to the counter. The frayed end bloomed a hairy tangle of copper and nickel wires.

Carrie flinched as though he was planning to strike out at her with the cord like a lash, so he feinted at it, watching her duck. The damn knife point was almost at her neck. She stood up soon enough, but by that time he was behind her, looping the other end of the cord in his fist and catching her right under the chin.

Even when he yanked back, earning a gargling gasp, Carrie didn’t drop the knife. In the instinctual panic of oxygen cut-off she flailed behind her with it, drawing a crazy, weaving arc. The blade was facing the wrong way, but the point caught in the fabric of Ryan’s pants and dragged over the skin of his thigh. 

He could feel the ragged skin left in its wake scrunching.

“Fuck,” he swore in Carrie’s ear. Risking a deeper wound, he kicked out with his injured leg and succeeded in pulling the knife handle from her grasp. It flipped like a downed toy airplane, throwing spots of his blood. Ryan looped the cord again over each hand once more, and that tiny easing of pressure was the last one Carrie got.

The movies have it wrong. It takes a long time to strangle someone. Getting them to the point of unconsciousness while they scrabbled and kicked was a good minute and a half, and to cut off the air supply fully and long enough for brain death was another three at least. His shoulders and biceps were shaking by the time he eased up.

At that point it’s shocking how fast the body falls. Ryan caught her at the waist but her forehead still thumped against the tile, jostling the tip of her protruding tongue. He lowered Carrie down by the fabric of her sweater, then pulled the sweater off her entirely. 

He used it to pick up the knife and wipe his prints from the toaster and his blood from the floor. He pulled the dish towel off the handle of the stove and wound it around his thigh. With any luck it would look like a bandana. He’d be the middle-aged fuck aping thug culture. Ryan bundled the knife and cord inside the sweater and left the apartment. 

He’d wait a few blocks before dumping the package in a trash can, and a few more to ditch the towel.

***

Ryan was still breathing hard when he came in. Part of it was the mad dash up the stairs. He could feel the stiffness of scabbing, but his pants leg was slashed through and hanging loose. He couldn’t risk any looks or questions in the elevator. The irony of it, which made Ryan laugh, was that the jaunt up the back staircase had probably opened the cut again. After he closed the door behind him he felt around the ragged edges of the wound. Yeah, definitely bleeding again. His fingers came away wet and red. The sight of it made his cock twitch.

“Ryan?”

Ryan looked up from his bloody fingers to see Mike Weston standing in the hallway. “Mike. Shit.”

“What the hell happened?” Mike rushed over and bent to look at the cut.

Ryan waved him away. “Oh, I...well--” He put on his best shit-eating grin. “What can I say? I’m clumsy.”

“It looks bad,” said Mike. 

“It’s fine. Just gonna go and patch up and I’ll be good as new.” He started to walk toward the bathroom, trying to decide whether or not he was going to wait to mop up the blood until after he rubbed one out.

“Did somebody come after you?” Mike asked. “One of Joe’s people?” 

Ryan clenched his teeth. Mike was wearing that earnest let-me-help-you look that Ryan sometimes wanted to punch off his face. But this time it was different. He could see the grasping desperation in it, the need to be approved of and useful. This time, Mike’s eagerness took the giddy satisfaction of watching Carrie Cooke’s mottled purple face hit the tile in her kitchen and cranked it. This time, Jesus, it _turned him on_.

“You can tell me,” Mike said. “I promise you can trust me, Ryan. You don’t have to lie.”

Ryan lunged forward, sealing his bloody hand over Mike’s mouth and wrapping the other around the nape of his neck. “Shut up, Mikey. No more questions, okay?” He let his hand slide away, leaving Mike’s lips streaked with red. “No more.”

The two were still within inches of one another but Mike didn’t move. 

“I ask the questions,” Ryan said, looking into Mike’s eyes. “And I give the answers.”

Mike was breathing hard--short, shallow breaths that fell on Ryan’s face and smelled of blood. Something shifted in that guileless stare, and he moved forward only a little, looking at Ryan’s mouth rather than his eyes.

“What do you want, Mike?” Without giving him time to answer, Ryan said, “No. I know what you want.”

At that, Mike drew back a little, but Ryan gave no leeway. He pulled him forward and crushed his lips to Mike’s, flicking his tongue out to taste the blood there. 

Just a split second and there it was. Mike’s shoulders sagged in surrender and he opened his mouth to Ryan, making some sort of high and pleading noise that Ryan was one hundred percent sure Max had never gotten out of him. He understood then, and he almost laughed into the kiss, if it could be called that. Max was close to Ryan, but she wasn’t _quite_ him. She was the next best thing.

Ryan shoved his tongue into Mike’s mouth only for a moment or two, then he bit down hard on Mike’s bottom lip. 

The confusion on the kid’s face was priceless. And damn if he didn’t look good with that injured pout. But Ryan had things in mind that didn’t involve kissing. 

“This is going to happen my way,” Ryan said, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head. “And I lied about the biting.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Mike stammered, his face turning red. “Whatever you want. Um. Don’t stop.” This last one was said very softly. Mike tried to move in for another kiss.

Ryan took hold of his shoulders, spun him around, and slammed him against the wall by the door. It sounded like Mike’s jaw clicked shut hard enough on impact to chip a tooth. The air left his lungs with a grunt.

Ryan yanked down Mike’s collar, and Mike surprised him by tearing at his own shirt, ripping the buttons off. Ryan pulled the shirt away until it stuck at the cuffs, then wound the fabric in his fist, trapping Mike’s hands behind him. The pressure, just right, along the meat of his palm, was reminiscent of the pinch of the electrical cord. Good Lord it was sweet. 

“Just how long have you wanted this? Huh?” Ryan asked. “A long time, I bet. Are you hard for me right now, Mikey?” He reached around Mike’s waist with his free hand to grab at his crotch. Sure enough, he found an erection straining against fabric and dug his fingers in, wrapping them as far as he could around Mike’s cock. “Oh, yeah. Look at that. Did you ever sit in bed, jerking off, thinking about me fucking you?”

Mike actually _whined_.

Ryan laughed against his neck and gave his cock a rough squeeze. “You did. More than once, too.” Ryan sank his teeth briefly into the tendon-strung juncture of Mike’s neck and shoulder, making him jump. “Well, now I’m going to. I’m gonna fuck you, Mikey.”

“Ryan,” Mike said, his eyes shut tight. “Please.”

Ryan began unbuttoning Mike’s pants. “Do you want my cock in you?”

Mike writhed, a scrawl of pure need. “Yes.”

“Say it,” Ryan said, pushing Mike’s pants and boxers off his hips. “Say, ‘I want your cock, Ryan.’”

“I--oh. I want your cock, Ryan.” The condensation from Mike’s breath was beginning to bead on the wall and slip down in straggling tears.

Ryan let go of the shirt. “Good,” he said. He wet a finger in his mouth and pressed it into Mike with a merciless twist as he fumbled with his belt buckle. “Keep going. Tell me how much you want it. Beg for it.”

“Ryan, God. I want you. Fuck me. Please. Come on.” Mike pulled his hands through the cuffs and braced his palms against the wall, shoving back against Ryan. He was far beyond shame. “Please. I want you to fuck my ass.”

“Yeah, you do,” said Ryan. “You want it bad.” He removed the finger and spat in his palm a couple times. After stroking the hand over his cock, he used both hands to spread Mike open wide, and then pushed in. 

Mike’s shout sounded pained, but from the way his muscles jumped and shuddered, Ryan could tell he wasn’t hurting. He was coming. 

“God _damn_ ,” said Ryan. “You really couldn’t wait for me, could you?”

“No. No. Yes.” Mike was babbling. “Please. Ryan, please. Come on. Oh, God, fuck me hard.”

Ryan pulled Mike back and Mike pushed into it. Ryan widened his stance and used the added leverage to pump his hips. His gaze flickered between the livid bite mark on Mike’s neck and the hypnotic slide of his own cock, in and out again. “Next time you can suck me,” Ryan hissed, curling his fingers to a bruising depth into Mike’s skin. “And I’ll come in your mouth. Maybe I’ll even come on your pretty face. How about that?” Ryan was almost sure there wouldn’t be a “next time,” but he enjoyed saying it for the way the words took the kid completely apart. 

Mike sank a little, groaning, as though his legs were faltering.

“Don’t give out on me now, Mikey,” Ryan said, speeding up his thrusts even though the cut on his thigh rippled and bled, opening like a wet mouth. “I’m going to give you what you want.” He leaned in, putting one hand on the wall just above Mike’s and biting down on Mike’s naked shoulder. 

A wordless exclamation then Mike said, “Again.”

“You like to hurt?” Ryan asked, giving Mike’s thigh a stinging slap. 

“I like--” he started, sounding phlegmy and choked. “I want _you_ to hurt me. Want to fucking feel something.”

“You better be careful,” Ryan said. “You don’t even know the line you’re walking.”

“Don’t care,” Mike breathed, lips against the painted wall. “Waited so long. You don’t know.”

Ryan exhaled, a wash of breath over Mike’s skin, then placed a soft kiss on his shoulder blade, just before drawing a mouthful of soft flesh between his jaws and clamping down. 

Mike howled through clenched teeth.

Ryan let go, blood rushing back to the bite mark so quickly that it almost glowed. He took a step back, hauling at Mike’s hips until he was nearly bent double, hands still braced against the wall. 

The jarring thrusts he made almost brought Ryan to the point of pain as well. His arms shook from the doubled exertion, from subduing first Carrie then Mike. With being close to Ryan Hardy came an almost surefire guarantee of coming to a bad end. But as caught up as he was in taking what he wanted from Mike, Ryan didn’t want the kid truly hurt. Not when he was only learning to deliver hurt with deliberation.

Ryan looked at the kid’s hands spread against the wall, knuckles white. They were strong, teachable. Maybe the next lesson would be gentler. Ryan saw the hammer rising and falling in his mind. He matched its rhythm and in a couple more thrusts he was coming, locking his body to Mike’s with an infallible grip. 

Mike slid to his knees when Ryan pulled out. He was breathing hard. Ryan crouched beside him and tucked the kid’s head against his shoulder. The smells of sweat and sex were stronger near the floor.

“Good,” he whispered, stroking Mike’s hair. “Good. Good. That’s good, Mikey. You did so well.”

Mike didn’t say much before he left the condo. There were no more questions about how Ryan had gotten the cut on his leg, though he did ask to use the shower. Ryan obliged, of course. He was itching to say something straight-up to Mike about the liaison with Max, but he could probably bet on any shenanigans with his niece getting put on hold until the marks he’d left on Mike’s skin had faded past the point of drawing questions. 

That was good. Sex could be a distraction, especially for someone who was still coming into his own. Of course, the same thing could be said about Ryan in some respects. He had never been an organized or methodical person, but he made up for it with razor-fine observation and marathon persistence. If his obsessions seemed scattered, they would look less like compulsion. People were starting to pick up on the undercurrent, to probe the depths. Max and Mike especially. Even before Lily Gray and the sad tatters of her group pushed Mike over the edge, Ryan found himself hard pressed to give a fuck what Mike saw, or what he thought of him. 

The catalyst for this change, as always, was Joe. He was methodical to a fault, even rigid. Last year, Ryan had watched him in the midst of a breakdown--not an emotional one but a sort of melting of the stiff honeycomb walls that propped him up. Seeing Joe gain the ability to give over control to chaos and fortune made it easier for Ryan both to admit to the consistent need that drove him and to give it the space it needed without censorship. 

He and Joe had always mirrored each other: left for right and right for left. But the motions were smoother now, more seamless. The glass between them was thinning. Every once in a while, Ryan wondered whether it had ever been there at all. 

~~~

_After the twenty-fifth or thirtieth frustrated grunt from Joe, Emma finally said something._

_The floor was littered with crumpled wads of paper, very much the classic stereotype of the frustrated writer._

_“It’ll come,” she said. “I’m glad you’re writing again.”_

_“Is it another book?” Mandy asked._

_Joe just shook his head._

_Mandy shot a look over at Emma, who pointedly refused to look at her._

_“Hm,” Joe said, his brows low over deep-set eyes. “Would you mind if I ran something by you?”_

_Emma grinned, putting down the self-printed booklet of cult bullshit she was only half-reading out of boredom. “Yeah, absolutely.”_

_Joe cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair and adopting the straight-backed posture of a declamatory Shakespearean actor._

_‘When folly born of man from blood is drawn_  
 _and evening draws the nightfall to its breast,_  
 _To nevermore be blighted by the dawn,_  
 _‘Tis only then and thusly will I rest._  
 _For thou hast pierced me with fair aim and true_  
 _And bid my blood unto the ground remit_  
 _That gathered it should be by only you_  
 _And given back in measure you see fit_  
 _So with this weary corpse what is your will?_  
 _To leave it over-buried by the dust?_  
 _Though in its breast the heart beats bloodless still,_  
 _And still again draw near to you it must?_  
 _If thou would thy intentions so belie,_  
 _Remove thy blade and leave me thus to die.’_

_A brief silence followed. It could have been expectant. Joe tamped down irritation that neither Emma nor Mandy--Mandy especially--likely knew English sonnet form from their own asses._

_“So?” he prompted._

_“It’s beautiful,” Emma said. “Not like anything I’ve ever heard before.”_

_“Mandy?”_

_She did the lip-biting thing she often did when she was about to say something that would get her in trouble. “Sorry, Joe,” she said, then in a quieter voice, “I think it sort of sucks.”_

_Emma turned to her. “What the hell do you know about poetry, anyway? You lived in Buttfuck, Arkansas with your whore of a mother.”_

_Mandy was on the defensive quicker than a kicked dog. “Who I_ killed _, remember? So maybe you’re not so different from me after all, you white trash piece of--”_

_“Ladies,” Joe interrupted. There was only the briefest flash of simmering displeasure in his face, but it held them both riveted to their seats. Then he sighed. “I hate to say it, but Mandy’s right. It’s terrible. The truth is, I haven’t the faintest idea how to make something sound sincere. From the heart, as it were.”_

_He stood up from the desk, crumpling the sheet of paper in one fist and heading toward the door, looking only at his feet. It was hard to mistake the attitude for anything but dejection._

_Emma vaulted up from her bed, the white bandages on her wrist stark even against her pale skin. “It’s really good, Joe. Really,” she said. “Don’t listen to her. If you keep working on it for a while, I know you’ll be happy with it.”_

_Joe waved her away. “No. It’s not worth it.” He tossed the wad of paper to the floor. “I’m going to have a walk. Clear my head.”_

_When the door closed behind him, Emma picked up the page and began to try to smooth it. She smiled down at the words._

_“What are you all happy about?” Mandy asked, gesturing in the flailing, exaggerated way that only adolescents could. “He didn’t write it for you.”_

_“I never said he did.”_

_“You were thinking it,” Mandy said. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not blind. I see the way you look at Joe. Like you’re going to ride off into the sunset or some crap. Like Lily used to.”_

_The look Emma gave her was pure poison. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. Or Joe.”_

_Mandy raised an eyebrow. “I know he doesn’t like you like that. He’s in love with that guy.”_

_Emma laughed. “_ Guy _? What guy?”_

_“The cop guy.” Mandy pursed her lips, already looking bored with the conversation. “Or FBI, whatever. Ryan.”_

_Emma laughed again, the edge of the sound this time fraying with near-hysteria. “Ryan_ Hardy _? You’re delusional. You’re out of your mind, just like those whackjobs outside that door. Joe_ hates _Ryan Hardy.”_

_“Okay,” said Mandy. “You just keep telling yourself that. But I saw them kissing.”_

_“Oh, my God!” Emma raised her hands to her face, the poem forgotten on the bed for the moment. “What kind of drugs did these Korban people give you?”_

_“I’m serious. Ryan Hardy was there at Lily’s place. He kissed Joe and then he ran off into the woods. There was tongue and everything.”_

_“Fuck you!” Emma said. Her face was red and one of the stitched cuts on her wrist had begun weeping spots of blood into the gauze. “I’m going out there. And I guarantee you Joe isn’t going to be happy to hear what you’re saying about him.”_

_“Fine,” said Mandy. “Go ahead. He’s not going to tell you anything. And he’s not going to get mad at me, because he knows I saw it.”_

_Emma stood still except for the head-to-toe thrum of rage. “You’re a kid,” she said. “A spiteful, hateful kid. You didn’t see anything because you never do.”_

_Mandy turned away, shrugging. “Whatever.”_

_Her hand on the doorknob, Emma said, “Joe trusts me. You’ll never understand that.”_

_“Mm-hm.” If Mandy hadn’t lost interest, she was faking it in the infuriating way only a teenager could._

_Layering spite on spite, Emma slammed the door behind her._

~~~

Ryan felt old. He felt old and sore. 

The hits were coming rapid-fire now, just the way he usually liked them. Carrie, Mike, then crazy Jana Murphy, with the added bonus of saddling Mendez with two kids she obviously didn’t want. Line ‘em up and knock ‘em down. But he was getting the distinct feeling that they were starting to knock right back. 

So he lay awake, kicking off his sheets, massaging his gun hand and using the other one to send an intermittent series of middle fingers toward the ceiling.

The dark room lit up blue. His phone.

Ryan rolled over, flexing his stiff, burning arms. Hauling the damn thing off the bedside table and raising it to his ear was a chore.

“Hardy.”

“Remarkably so,” Joe said.

“Joe.”

“Where am I?” Joe said, laughter in his voice.

“You know me too well,” said Ryan. Almost at once the soreness drained out of his heavy limbs.

“Perhaps,” said Joe.

“‘Perhaps?’”

“I understand you’ve met Dr. Strauss,” Joe said. “At this point I suppose I should call him by his given name, but it’s hard to shake the habit of seeing someone as an authority figure.”

“It’s easier than you’d think,” said Ryan. “How did you contact him? I bugged the hell out of his house.”

“I’m given to understand there is a lovely invention called the cellular telephone, which allows you to talk outside of your house,” Joe said. “Imagine that.”

Something in Joe’s tone made Ryan stop for a moment. “You’re pissed that I fucked up your mentor’s hand.”

“No, Ryan. I’m angry that _you_ didn’t.”

“What?”

“There was someone else there,” Joe said “A few people, or so Dr. Strauss told me.”

“Wait,” said Ryan. “It would have been okay if I had gone after Strauss, but you’re upset that Mike did it. The dirty work, I mean.”

“Mike whom?”

“Michael Weston. Former agent, now a consultant. Your boy Roderick messed him up pretty bad.”

“Oh, yes,” Joe said. “ _That_ one.”

“Yeah,” said Ryan. “Lily Gray killed his father. She recorded it and sent it to him.”

“Lily. She has no sense of subtlety,” said Joe, disdain creeping into his voice. “So now what? This Mike is ‘Ryan two-point-oh?’”

“That was low,” Ryan said. “Mike isn’t me and he’ll never be me. Let’s just call him my ‘Emma.’”

“Your first officer, then. Your right-hand man, as it were, Dr. Strauss’s injuries notwithstanding.” 

Joe’s tone was lighter, and Ryan relaxed a little. “Something like that.”

A pause. “Did you fuck him?”

The implication wasn’t lost on Ryan. He’d guessed Joe had slept with Emma at least once. Anyway, there was no point in lying about Mike. “Yeah. I did. It was what I needed at the time.”

“I suppose I deserve that,” Joe said.

“No more,” Ryan said. “I promise.”

“People like us don’t make promises.”

“No,” Ryan said, “but we can be consistent.”

“Yes,” Joe said, his tone softening, “we can. Constant, even.”

“Same thing.”

“I will never understand, Ryan Hardy, why I find your lack of appreciation for the poetic so endearing when I abhor it in others,” said Joe.

“Must be all my other stellar qualities,” said Ryan.

“It must be.”

“Listen, Joe. The Bureau knows,” Ryan said. “They know you’re alive. We took out Jana Murphy, too. Or, actually, she took herself out.”

“It was only a matter of time,” Joe said. “On both counts. Jana had outlived her usefulness to me.”

“She did stick a knife in her ex before she went.”

“My, my,” said Joe. “A death in the nest will really have the hornets buzzing by now.”

“The agent is going to pull through,” said Ryan. “But they’re setting up some special task force just for you.”

“I expect that will work as well as it did last time.”

“Especially since I’m heading it up,” Ryan said. “Care to tell me what your plan is?”

“Oh, no, no, no, Ryan,” said Joe, laughing. “I won’t spoil your fun. In any case, the whole world will know soon enough. I’m planning to go public again.”

“I want to see you before you do,” said Ryan.

“I don’t think that will be possible,” Joe said. “I’m not in a very good place right now. And I mean that literally. Emma and Mandy and myself have landed in the midst of a cult, if you can believe it.”

“That’s not really a stretch of the imagination, Joe.”

“No, this time I mean a real one,” Joe said. “Costumes and rituals and all.”

“Some Jim Jones kind of thing?” asked Ryan.

“Infinitely more banal, I assure you. It doesn’t make them less dangerous, though. I’ve got the ear of the leader,” said Joe. “Micah. And what a piece of work he is. Dear God, he’s asked me to help him plan a mass murder. I told him I’d need to start by using his phone.”

“And you used it to call me. I’m flattered.”

“After Dr. Strauss, if you’ll remember.”

“So you’re turning down a mass murder?” Ryan asked, unable to keep from smiling a little.

“Only for the sake of a greater plan,” Joe said.

Ryan laughed. “Now that’s the Joe Carroll that I know and--”

“And…?” Joe said.

“And some people don’t like to give up their petty victories for larger ones,” Ryan said. “Speaking from recent experience here.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Indeed,” Joe said.

“So what are you going to do about this Micah guy?”

Joe’s sigh was audible. “He won’t be a problem for much longer. Perhaps I’ll take his ear in a more literal fashion before I’m rid of him. Crazy bastard.’ 

“You’re one to talk,” said Ryan.

“Now that’s the Ryan Hardy that I know.”

“And…?”

“And you should probably get off the phone,” said Joe. “Who knows what resources this ‘special task force’ of yours has at its disposal.”

“Trust me,” Ryan said. “I’ve considered the possibility that I’m being set up.”

“Of course you have,” Joe told him. “Look for me on your television, Ryan. In the meantime, I have something to send to you.”

“I hope it’s not an ear.”

Joe laughed. “Goodbye, Ryan. For now.”

Ryan’s smile lasted until he walked out into the living room and turned on the TV. The top story on the news was the discovery of Carrie Cooke’s body.

***

Ryan and Mike were poring over Jana Murphy’s phone records, not really expecting a “eureka” moment regarding Joe’s number or whereabouts. At least Ryan didn’t expect it. Mendez’s ex may have been stone cold crazy, but she was smart.

_Hell, he could say that about a lot of people in his life._

So few things ended neatly, but it had been a nice wrap-up when Jana blew her brains all over the wallpaper. And inquiries would tie Mendez up for at least a little while.

“Do you think it was the kid?” Mike asked out of nowhere. “Cole or whatever?”

“What was?” said Ryan, lost in thought.

“Carrie Cooke,” said Mike. “Do you think Strauss sent his protégé after her? I mean, nobody in the city would recognize him.”

“It’s possible,” Ryan said. “Both of them are as crazy as Joe is. He might have done it to get back at me.”

“I can’t believe she turned down the protective detail,” Mike said. He paused. “We should have killed that bastard Strauss while we had the chance.”

“Whoa,” said Ryan. “Easy, tiger. You can’t anticipate what these people will do. And we don’t even know for sure it was him.”

“Who else could it have been?”

“Joe,” Ryan said. “Not directly, of course.”

“You’re thinking he could still have followers in the city?” Mike asked. “People not associated with Lily Gray?”

“Or maybe it’s another copycat trying to win Joe’s favor. Or Lily’s.”

“Well, the Bureau is involved now,” Mike said, “Just because she was so close to the whole Joe Carroll phenomenon. I asked for the medical examiner’s report. I’ll bring it to you as soon as it comes in.” He paused. “But they may not find much.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I heard she was there a couple of days before they found her. Jesus.”

Mike bit his lip. “Carrie Cooke was arrogant and pushy,” he said, “but she didn’t deserve to go out that way.”

Ryan shook his head. “Hey, listen,” he said. “I know part of it was your dad, and believe me I’m sorry as hell about that. It tears me apart. But you’ve really stepped up to the plate. Yeah, I was kind of pissed that Max dragged you into the thing with Strauss. But let’s be honest: I wouldn’t be here talking to you if you hadn’t come. So, yeah. I guess...I guess I just wanted to say ‘thanks.’”

Mike smiled, and the earnestness of that smile was so naked it was painful. “I just want to end this. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Stop Lily and Joe and all the other murderous fucks like them. Sometimes you have to step outside of the boundaries a little. You taught me that.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Sometimes you do.”

They both sat up, startled, and looked over as Max rushed into the condo, flinging the door open so hard the knob punched a hole in the plaster. 

“Turn on the TV,” she said, struggling to regain her breath. “WNYC. Now.”

“What the hell?” Mike said.

Ryan grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. It wasn’t the right channel, but as it turned out, it didn’t matter. The familiar blue-and-white set of the local news program appeared on nearly every channel. It looked like an abattoir. One of the anchors--Kevin something?--lay facedown on the news desk in a spreading pool of blood. There was arterial spray all over the backdrop. As Ryan watched, a trail of it reached the edge of the blond wood and tipped over in a tiny flume. 

The other anchor, Deletta Ward, was staring with saucer-round eyes at the camera, the gleam of a knife at her throat. Behind her, holding the knife in a blood-soaked hand, was Emma Hill.

“Is that--?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Yeah, it is. Jesus. Is this live?”

“No,” Max said. “A few minutes ago. It’s out there like wildfire already.”

“Joe,” Ryan said.

“Miss Ward has agreed to be our messenger,” Emma was saying to the camera. “You _will_ play our message, won’t you?” 

Deletta closed her eyes as Emma grabbed her by her perfect newscaster coif and forced her to nod.

“Good,” Emma said, looking back at the camera. “You all need to watch. Obviously, Carrie Cooke didn’t get your attention. But don’t worry. Soon the world will be watching. Praise Joe.”

Ryan choked on a laugh. _Praise Joe?_

“I know,” Max said. “Sickening.”

Ryan held his hand up, signaling silence. 

Onscreen, Emma placed a thumb drive on the desk between Deletta Ward’s shaking hands, winked, and took the knife away. The anchor was already weeping by the time an equally rattled aide came up and took the flash drive from her. The only thing visible was her stunned face before it faded out, and a masked figure appeared.

All three of them watched the video--a shaky, homemade thing--in transfixed wonder: Max and Mike horrified, Ryan disgusted. The thing was tacky as shit.

“That’s a hell of a way to come out,” Ryan said.

“If Joe Carroll wanted to eclipse Lily Gray, I’d say he’s done it,” Max said.

The screen cut away to another news broadcast.

“A scene of horror and mayhem at the WNYC studios less than a half hour ago,” a blonde woman said, her face a mask of fake sincerity. “We apologize for the graphic nature of the clip we just showed you, but Channel Ten Action News feels it is important that everyone understand the gravity of the situation.”

The other anchor, pale beneath his makeup, chimed in. “That’s right, Jane. We now not only have conclusive proof that serial killer Joe Carroll is alive, but that he and his followers have decided to resume their reign of terror.”

“All this barely one day after police discovered the body of investigative journalist Carrie Cooke,” said the woman named Jane. “Cooke was the author of _The Havenport Tragedy_ , a bestselling book about Carroll’s deadly cult.” 

“From the footage we saw, the killers appear to be claiming responsibility for Cooke’s death, though no official cause or time of death has been released,” the male anchor said.

Ryan flipped the TV off. They stood in silence for a moment.

Max was shaking her head. “It’s never going to stop.”

“It will,” said Mike. “We’re going to stop it.”

“How?” asked Max. “First Carrie Cooke and now this? I mean, Carrie was no saint, but she didn’t deserve that.”

“She was in too deep and didn’t know it,” Ryan said. “People on the outside don’t know how dangerous it is.”

“What about the people in the TV studio?” asked Mike. “Collateral damage?”

“We couldn’t have stopped it, Mike,” Max said. “Any more than we could have stopped what happened to Carrie.”

“It’s not the murder,” Ryan said. “It’s the chaos. Joe likes it. It makes him feel powerful.”

“It’s not the murder?” Max asked. “Have you _met_ Joe Carroll?”

“Yes,” Ryan said. “Unlike anyone else in this room.”

Max narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

“Well, we know he was always a narcissist,” said Mike. “But now he’s trying to set himself up as some sort of mythical figure."

“He’s got a god complex, that’s for sure,” Ryan said. 

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” said Max.

“If you can find the pedestal to shake,” Ryan said. “I need a beer.”

“Ryan--” Max said.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s just a beer.” But he could tell by her expression she was unappeased.

“What if you went down to the WNYC studios?” Max asked. “There has to be something there we can work with.”

Ryan scowled. “Very fucking subtle.”

“I think we’re just trying to understand,” Mike said. “Usually you’d already be on the train downtown by now. Maybe Emma Hill hasn’t left the area.”

“I’m sure PD has set up a perimeter. But it won’t matter. Emma’s long gone,” Ryan said. “If we’re going to approach this, we have to do it the smart way and not waste our resources. Joe will anticipate that.”

Mike’s phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and wandered away from Ryan and Max, ducking his head as he answered.

Ryan watched him until Max stepped into his field of vision, shock and disgust written all over her face.

“What is with you?” she asked in a harsh whisper. “It’s almost like you don’t care that the followers--including fucking Emma Hill--just killed God knows how many people on live television.”

“Chasing Emma won’t make those people any less dead,” Ryan said. “She’s the symptom. She’s not the disease.”

Max set her mouth in a hard line, lips pressed together until they went white. 

Mike had finished his phone call. He walked back over to them. “So what’s the plan?”

Max shook her head. “Well, I’m going over to WNYC.” She turned to Mike. “You coming?”

He ducked his head, scratched his chin. “I have something I need to take care of.”

“Fine,” Max said. She looked over at Ryan. “What about you?”

“I’m going to have my goddamn beer,” he said. “Then I’m going to find out exactly what happened to Carrie Cooke.”

Ryan’s head was a warren of conflicting emotions, so much so that he forgot about the drink as soon as Mike and Max walked out the door. There was something like gratitude, but much more abstract, knocking around in his brain. Joe hadn’t thought twice about taking credit for Carrie’s death, whether he knew he was protecting Ryan or not. At the same time, it made it all seem more real. Carrie Cooke was not Gisele; she wasn’t some throwaway child soldier whose death didn’t make a single dent in the grand scheme. And for that, Ryan thought he should feel a little more solidly appreciative.

But something about it made him angry, too, and that wasn’t as hard to pin down. It was like he’d written a letter to Joe and gotten it back marked “Return to Sender.” Sure, it could be that he copped to it as a nod to Arthur Strauss. Maybe it was a bit of petty revenge for the Mike thing. Neither one made Ryan particularly happy.

“Goddamn drama queen,” he said to the empty living room. 

***

Despite the security risk, the city would not back down on its plan to hold a joint memorial service for Carrie Cooke and the people killed at WNYC. 

“We need to show Joe Carroll that we are not afraid,” the mayor had said at a press conference. “The nation’s finest are engaged in hunting him down as we speak. We _will_ bring him to justice. Just like we _will_ pull through this tragedy. The nation and the world already know it, but I’ll say it again: we are New Yorkers, and we will _survive_.”

Even the press corps had cheered.

Ryan didn’t want to go to the service. But Mike and Max were determined, even if only to pad out the law enforcement presence. So he suited up in dark gray with a black shirt and pewter tie (God, he fucking hated ties) and joined the throng at Brooklyn’s Green-Wood Cemetery.

The day was overcast but unseasonably warm. Ryan was stifled in his suit, the wool itching and clinging. He yanked at his collar and wondered just how long the paeans to Carrie Cooke’s integrity were going to run. 

Never speak ill of the dead? Bullshit. Sometimes if the dead had done a little less speaking ill while they were still on this side of the grass they might not have ended up the way they did. Ryan looked over at Max, who was standing at parade rest, head bowed. 

_Thank God_ , he thought. _Thank God you’re not really my kid. I can’t care the way I need to. Did I ever? Maybe before Joe._

But on reflection, Ryan realized he didn’t remember any “before Joe.” He coughed, trying to get in a shake of his head to clear it. There was no displacing Joe Carroll from his corner in Ryan’s mind. Corner, hell. His throne. The man ruled Ryan’s thoughts so completely his decisions bent around him like light in water.

It was because of his ruminating that at first Ryan thought he hallucinated her: the tall girl standing outside the fence, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, both of which were a little too big. Her eyes twitched back and forth. Riding Hood waiting for the wolf.

“Mandy?” Until Max glanced in his direction he wasn’t aware he’d said it out loud. 

“You okay?” Max whispered.

The vision of the girl hadn’t wavered. “Yeah,” Ryan said. “Just, uh, wait here a second.”

He walked as quickly as he could without attracting undue attention. Mandy’s eyes were wide, her stare darting between Ryan and the ranks of armed guards at the cemetery’s periphery, but she was smart enough not to turn her head as she scanned the crowd.

“What are you doing here?” Ryan asked in a whisper. “Did Joe send you?”

“Duh,” Mandy whispered back. “He wants me to give you something.” She unzipped the hoodie partway and reached in to pull something out.

“No,” Ryan said. “Just wait. We need to get out of here. Wait there. I’ll come around the gate and meet you.”

She nodded.

Max had seen him speaking with Mandy, and she held out her hands, palm up, questioning. 

_Stay there_ , Ryan mouthed. He put his hand up to his ear, miming holding a phone. _I’ll call you._ It wasn't going to fly with her, that he knew for sure.

Max let her hands drop in exasperation, and began to edge backward toward the gate, but Ryan held up a hand and shook his head. Max watched him as he walked toward the exit.

The guard nearest the gate gave Ryan a suspicious look.

Ryan put on an apologetic face. “Sorry for the hurry. My friend’s kid is in trouble. She’s, uh, running with the wrong crowd. You know the deal. Well, maybe you don't."

The man’s face softened a little. “Oh, no. I sure do," he said. “Got two teenagers of my own.” He looked over at Mandy. “Cute kid. Tell her to be good.”

Ryan gave a tight little smile. “I’m trying.” He looked at Max. She’d alerted Mike, and he was watching as Ryan skirted the fence and walked over to Mandy.

Ryan took her arm--it was thin as a bird’s leg--trying to be gentle. “We have to go,” he said. “Don’t ask questions. Just follow me.”

“Who are those people? The people watching us.”

“That’s a question, Mandy.”

“Oops,” she said, stumbling a bit as Ryan towed her along to the subway entrance.

“My niece,” he said. “She’s a cop. The other one’s an FBI agent. They’re going to follow us, so you’ve got to listen to me.”

Downstairs on the platform, Ryan tried to move away from the few people waiting for the train. Once the service was over the crowds would fill the station, and Ryan hoped he and Mandy would be safely off and down the track before that happened. Or before Mike and Max came looking. 

“Did you come from the cult compound?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “How did you know?”

“Joe told me.”

“It’s better now that he’s in charge. They were super weird.”

Both of them looked up when a curtain of air pushed out of the tunnel, chased by the roar and click of the subway train. Ryan shot a glance at the stairs, but he couldn’t see Mike or Max. Yet.

The train squealed to a stop and the doors hissed open. Ryan ushered Mandy into one of the less crowded cars. “Come on, come on,” he whispered, watching the entrance. Just as the doors shut, he caught sight of Max coming down the stairs, scanning the platform from left to right as she ran.

“Shit,” Ryan said. “Sit down.” He tugged on Mandy’s arm again, nearly pulling her off balance. They sat in the handicap-accessible seats with their backs to the platform. “Don’t look."

As the train pulled away, Ryan turned his head just a little and saw Max standing at the edge. She hadn’t seen them. He let his breath out in a rush. 

“What’s the big deal?” Mandy asked. “They don’t know who I am, right?”

“We can’t really talk here,” Ryan said. “But either way, we don’t have a lot of time. Max and Mike will be on the next train.”

“I thought one of them was a girl,” Mandy said. 

“Huh?”

“Max isn’t a girl’s name and Mike definitely isn’t,” she said.

“Maxine,” Ryan said. “Took me a long time to forgive my brother for that.”

“When did you?” she asked.

“When he died.”

“Shit,” said Mandy.

“Whoa. The mouth on you,” Ryan said. 

“You said it first.”

They rode in silence only for a few minutes.

“I was the one who saw, you know,” Mandy said.

“Please, Mandy. We can’t talk here. Just give it a few minutes, huh?”

“I mean at the house. The big house,” she said. “That’s what I meant. It was me.”

Ryan was stunned past words for a beat or two. “Um, okay. And what did you think about that?”

Mandy shrugged. “You guys can be together if you want. I’m not weird about stuff like that. Emma thinks I’m a hick, but I know more about things than she thinks.”

Ryan put a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk about her. Just--” he paused, looking at the other passengers. “Did you tell...that person about what you saw?”

“Yeah.”

Ryan winced. “That probably wasn’t a good idea.”

“It’s okay,” Mandy said. “She didn’t believe me.”

“Did you come into the city with her?” Ryan asked.

“Nope. On my own. Can I stay at your place this time?”

“What’s the matter? You didn’t like the room service?” he asked, letting the hint of a smile touch his lips. The first time she had come to see him, Ryan had put Mandy up in a hotel for a week. Hell on his bank account, but it gave him enough time to make the trek out to Joe’s. When he got back, he stuck Mandy on a Greyhound back to the closest town, which had probably been one or two levels above one-stoplight and was still a long way from the cabin. He’d been reluctant to do so at first, but Mandy pulled one of those hands-on-hips, withering look acts and told him she had been homeless before her mom took her in.

Her _ex-mom_ , as she’d put it. 

Ryan figured if she was nutty enough to unzip her hooker benefactor from stomach to sternum with a kitchen knife, it wasn’t worth arguing the point. Joe tended to collect vicious little cherubs, the first among them being Emma Hill. Seemed like Mandy was rising in the ranks.

“He said to trust you, so I guess I do,” said Mandy. “I kind of think of him as my dad. He lived with my mom for a year, and he took way better care of me. I mean, you don’t have to be my second dad or whatever--”

“Mandy, we are _not_ talking about this,” Ryan said, mortified. “Probably not ever.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“This is our stop,” Ryan said. When they were out on the street, he leaned down to her. “Real quick, okay? You need a story and you need to stick to it. We’re going to make it as close to the truth as possible so you can remember.”

“Why can’t I just tell the truth?” Mandy asked.

“It might give away where Joe is,” said Ryan. “You care about him, right? And you don’t want him to get hurt?”

She nodded.

“Well, I do, too. But there are lots of people in this city who want to hurt Joe, and two of them are coming on the next train,” Ryan said. “So just listen and answer my questions.”

Another nod.

“Do you know where the cult is?”

“Kind of but not really. There was a lot of driving on these little roads in the woods. I sort of zoned out.” She looked guilty. “Sorry.”

“No, that’s good. If anybody asks, tell them you all had bags over your heads so you couldn’t see. You didn’t even know what state you were in.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know the name of the cult?”

“Korban,” she said. “K-O-R-B-A-N. It was on banners all over the place. I still don’t know what it means.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ryan told her. “Just don’t tell anyone else the name, or even the fact that it's a cult, okay? Operations like that are easier to find than you think.”

“Okay.”

“You may not be able to go back for a while,” Ryan said. “But I promise you’ll see Joe again.”

“I don’t really want to go back right now,” Mandy said. “ _She_ pisses me off, like, bigtime.”

Ryan huffed a laugh. “You can say her name now. No one can hear us."

“Emma's probably not going to be very happy when she finds out I was telling the truth,” said Mandy.

“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen for a while,” Ryan said. “Sound good?”

She nodded again.

“Okay, last one. What’s the thing Joe wants to give me?”

“It’s a letter,” said Mandy. “I have it right here.”

“Good,” Ryan said. “Let’s go up to the apartment. I need to read it. Just to make sure.”

“You think Joe’s gonna be that obvious?” Mandy asked, obviously unimpressed.

Ryan smiled. “No. I don’t.”

***

There was nothing remotely kid-appropriate to eat or drink in the condo. Ryan made a quarter pot of weak coffee and filled the mug almost halfway with sugar.

Mandy wrinkled her nose when she sniffed it, but seemed okay with the few cautious sips she took.

Ryan left her in front of the TV while he went into his war room with the letter Mandy gave him. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. It would look better to keep up appearances, even though he didn’t want to. He wanted to feel the paper under his fingers.

He sliced the unmarked, cream-colored envelope open with a scalpel, and removed the paper within. It was the same shade and weight as the envelope.

_Trust Joe to come up with matching stationery._

Unfolding the letter made Ryan catch his breath. The ink was a dark brown, the lines furred and messy around the edges. A faint, strange scent rose from the page. 

It wasn’t written in ink, but blood.

_My Dear Ryan,_  
 _As I’ve come once again to the painful realisation that I am no good with words, I thought it would be appropriate to send you something in the medium in which I work best. You yourself are no mere dabbler in this art, but I assure you I won’t expect a reply in kind. At least not yet._  
 _Things are about to get really interesting, as the saying goes. I do hope you know, however, that nothing is more fascinating to me than our little exchanges. Until we speak again, then._  
 _Yours Always,_  
 _Joe_

Ryan read the words twice, tracing a gloved finger down the uneven right-hand margin. He smiled. “Goddammit, Joe.”

He lifted the page to his nose, breathing the sharp-sweet smell. Ryan had very little doubt that Joe had killed Micah, the former cult leader. But he couldn’t quite see him writing a letter in the man’s blood. Not one this intimate. It had to be Joe’s blood.

At that realization, the scent seemed to grow stronger, more familiar. Ryan closed his eyes and inhaled again.

The reverie ended when he heard the door.

“Ryan?” Mike called.

“Ryan--what the hell?” said Max. She’d obviously seen Mandy.

He came out carrying the letter in his gloved hand.

“What is going on?” Max asked. “Who is this?”

“Max, Mike,” Ryan said. “I want you to meet Mandy. She says Joe Carroll sent her to find me. And I believe her. Because of this.”

The two of them stared for a moment, frozen in place.

Mike broke first. He pulled his gun out of the holster and pointed it at Mandy.

“Mike!” Ryan called. 

"Calm down," Max said, pushing his arm down. “Look at her. She’s just a kid.”

Mike looked back and forth between Max and Mandy. The panic in his face was almost comical. “If she’s old enough to hang out with Joe Carroll, she’s old enough to be dangerous.”

Ryan stepped in to stand at Mike’s shoulder. “She’s not a follower. She’s a hostage.”

“Why would she carry a message for Joe?” asked Mike. “If he let her go, wouldn’t she just ditch the letter and run?”

_Smart, Mike. Smart questions._ Ryan gave over to admiration for a split second.

“Joe Carroll killed my mom,” Mandy said. "He said if I didn’t go to the funeral thing and find Ryan Hardy, he’d find me and he’d kill me, too.”

Ryan could see the first shine of tears in her eyes. Nice touch.

“How did you know about the funeral? How did you know what Ryan looked like?” Mike asked.

“Hey,” Max said. “Can’t you see she’s traumatized? Lay off a little.”

“The press conference after the subway killings,” Ryan said. “Joe probably recorded it. Sounds like I pissed him off good saying I wasn’t involved in the investigation.”

“Uh-huh,” Mandy said. “He was always talking about you. All the time. He made me stay with him. He never let me leave, until now.”

“Joe Carroll is a sick bastard,” said Max, “but at least we know he’s not sick enough to kill a kid.”

Mike had lowered the gun, but at that point he cautiously re-holstered it. “Just to kill her mother in front of her."

"Probably because of Joey," Max said.

“He told me about Joey,” Mandy said. “He slipped up and called me Joey once.”

Ryan shot Mandy what he hoped was a subtle warning look. _Don’t go overboard._

“Where did he keep you?” Mike asked.

“In a room. I don’t know where. I always had a black sack over my face when we moved anywhere.” The accumulated tears finally spilled out and over Mandy’s cheeks.

Max rushed over to her. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe. We can protect you now.”

“Let me see that,” Mike said, gesturing at the letter.

“Don’t touch it with your bare hands,” said Ryan.

“Yeah, uh--” Mike looked around the room.

Ryan pulled a tissue from the box on the breakfast bar and handed it to him.

Mike frowned and pinched a corner of the letter as if it was laced with anthrax. “Holy--is that blood?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “We won’t know whose until we do a DNA analysis. If it’s not too degraded by now to get a good sample.”

“Max, listen to this,” Mike said, “‘My Dear Ryan--’”

“Don’t,” Ryan said, inclining his head toward Mandy. “I’d rather she didn’t hear.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Of course. Sorry.”

“Jesus, Ryan,” Max said. “Is this coffee?”

“I didn’t really have anything,” Ryan said.

Max shook her head. She looked at Mandy. “There’s a place down on the corner. Do you want to get a hot cocoa or something?”

“I don’t want to leave the house,” Mandy said.

“I guess not,” Max said. “Tell you what: I’ll go down there and get us all drinks. Mike and Ryan will look after you.”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Mike said. It sounded stilted and lame, but at least he was trying to make up for drawing his gun on her.

Mandy looked at Mike, then back at Max, and nodded.

“We’ll keep it quiet,” Ryan said. He motioned Mike into the doorway leading to the war room.

“You’re the main target,” Mike said. “Just like last time. He’s not going to stop. If anything, he’s escalated. I mean, look at this.” He waved his free hand at the paper. “It’s practically a love letter.”

“What can I say? I’m irresistible,” Ryan said with a lopsided smile.

“It isn’t funny, Ryan.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Fine,” said Mike, “make it a joke. I guarantee you it’s not a joke to Joe Carroll.”

“I know it’s not a joke. Okay?” said Ryan. “Nobody knows it better than me. But this is not your problem.”

“Don’t start with that shit again,” Mike said. “You are not doing this alone. Joe’s baiting you. He wants you play into his vendetta, and if you shut me out--if you shut Max out--next time you could end up in a place where we can’t help you.”

“The less you know about this, the better,” Ryan said. “Trust me.”

“You keep saying that,” said Mike, “and it just keeps being bullshit.”

“I guess you forgot that I almost got Max killed going after Lily Gray,” Ryan said. “I’m having trouble forgiving myself for that.”

“I’ll protect Max,” Mike said. “We’re safer in numbers.”

“Jesus,” said Ryan. “You fuck my niece once and suddenly you’re the knight in shining armor.”

The words hit Mike like a slap to the face. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Mikey. Look, I don’t care what you two do. As long as you stay out of my way.”

“Ryan,” said Mike, “I’m begging you. Don’t take the bait. Bad things happen when you go after Joe.”

“Bad things happen if I _don’t_ go after him,” Ryan said.

“You think Claire would still be alive if things hadn’t gone down like they did?” Mike asked. For the first time that Ryan could see, there was a cool, venomous appraisal in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare bring Claire up,” Ryan said. “Not now. Not ever.”

“I’m just saying,” Mike said, “there’s no way you can know every angle to this.”

“And just what the hell does that mean?”

“It means one perspective isn’t enough,” said Mike. “You’ve got tunnel vision, Ryan. Let us be your backup.”

Ryan leaned closer, whispering harshly. “You say that like you know what it’s like. But you have no idea. I am under so much pressure. It’s with me every single minute, crushing me. It follows me into bed at night. You understand? I don’t get a break. I don’t get to shrug this case off and go relax. As long as Joe Carroll is alive, _I have to live for Joe Carroll_.”

Mike couldn’t quite mask the bald horror on his face quickly enough. “I know you, Ryan. And you don’t mean that," he said. "I want to get Lily Gray. I want to see her pay for what she did. But my dad--” he looked away for a moment, fighting back at least a lump in his throat, if not tears, “my dad would want me to have a life. Just like Max wants to have a life and she wants you to have a life.”

“I’m too far gone,” Ryan said. There was no regret in the statement. “Max knows it. It’s about time you woke up, too.”

Mike took a breath, looking out toward the living room then back. “There are a lot of things you don’t know, Ryan. Things that might change your mind. Make you reevaluate this...whatever it is. Insanity, maybe.”

“You know, Mikey, that’s the second time you’ve talked about ‘things I don’t know,’” said Ryan. “Keep it up and I might think you're holding something back from me.”

“You’re paranoid,” Mike said.

“I’m inside Joe Carroll’s head all the time,” Ryan said. “Does that make me paranoid? Insane? Yeah, probably. But that’s what I need. I need to think like him, plan like him. Act like him. It’s the only way I get what I want.”

Mike scowled. “And you always get what you want, right?”

Ryan grabbed a fistful of fabric at Mike’s shirtfront, shaking him hard. “Don’t you put that back on me, Mike. You wanted it. You were begging for it. Maybe you need a reminder.”

“That was back when I thought we were a team. That I could learn from you. But you don’t give a shit about me. You don’t give a shit about--”

Ryan gave him a warning look, suggesting that if he mentioned Max he might be walking out minus a couple of teeth.

“About anyone but Joe Carroll.”

“I don’t have time to care. Especially not now,” Ryan said, letting Mike go. “And you should take a lesson from that. Joe’s not our only problem. Lily and her psycho twins, or at least one of them, are still out there. And more people are going to die if you don’t sack up and deal with it. So you think about that for a while. For now? Get the fuck out of my house.”

Mike dropped the tissue and the letter and turned away. It took most of Ryan’s willpower not to pick it up until Mike had slammed the door after him.

Max came up a little while later, balancing a cardboard drink holder on her palm. She put it down on the counter and started unpacking the paper cups, trying not to spill. Removing the last cup, she said, “Hey. Where’d Mike go?”

“Said he had some things to think about,” Ryan said.

“Did I do anything?” Mandy asked.

“No, honey,” said Max. “Everything you did was right.”

Ryan walked to the bar to examine the cups. He looked at the writing on the side, then ferried the drink over to Mandy. “One hot cocoa. So, which one’s mine?”

***

It was agreed that Mandy would sleep in the bed and Ryan would take the couch. Max offered to stay, and wouldn’t give it up until Mandy said it was okay that she left.

Max looked haggard, exhausted. Still, she told Mandy, “I’m going to come back in the morning."

Ryan couldn’t resist smiling after her when she left. Max Hardy, badass extraordinare, had at least the barest hint of a soft side. He still couldn’t see her leaving the force for a brood of brats in the suburbs like crazy Jana Murphy, but still. At the same time, he felt a little stab of amused pity for Mendez.

Ryan lent Mandy a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants for the night, with a vague promise to get her more clothes at some point.

“As long as it’s not red sweats,” she said. Ryan didn’t quite understand.

She looked tiny in the enormous bed. As he flicked off the light she said, “Did I do good today?”

“Kid,” Ryan said, "you should be in the movies.”

***

Even though she was suspended, Max said she could probably get a favor from the night tech in the forensics lab. At first, Ryan wasn’t on board with handing over a snippet of the letter, more for the sake of discretion than for keeping the letter intact. But not much more.

“I’ll keep it hush-hush,” she said. "Danny’s busy, anyway. The lab has metric tons of evidence from the TV station to process. I’ll just tell him to get me the printout instead of running it through the database.”

“Thanks,” said Ryan.

“The sample’s probably going to be destroyed,” Max said.

Ryan smiled. “We’ve got a lot left.”

“Whose blood do you think it is?” asked Max.

“I have no idea,” Ryan said.

In truth, it was a futile errand. Ryan was as certain as he could be that the blood was Joe’s. But it would keep Max out of the picture for a little bit.

“You got everything you need?” he asked Mandy after Max left.

“I think so,” she said, looking a little doubtful.

“I’m sorry you can’t come with me,” Ryan said.

“It’s okay. Just--” she looked down for a second. “What if they take me to the FBI?”

“That’s not going to happen. I told you Mike was an agent, but he’s not. He’s a consultant, but he’s done some things that wouldn’t make them very happy. And Max is a cop, but she’s suspended.”

“For what?”

“For chasing down one of Lily’s kids,” Ryan said. “With me.”

“Did she kill the kid?”

Ryan shook his head. 

“Well,” said Mandy, “I hope somebody did.”

Ryan laughed. “You definitely belong with Joe.”

The day before, Ryan had stocked the fridge with junk food. Max wouldn’t be happy when she saw it, but Mandy thought it was great. With the name of the cult complex, it was a hop, skip, and a jump from CultWatch.com to the Bureau’s database of alternative religions (Hi there, Deb!) for an approximate location.

He wouldn’t have much time. Once the feds caught on that Joe’s operation was a coup in an existing establishment rather than another gathering of random groupies, they’d be canvassing compounds nationwide. By then, Ryan would be out. Back in the mix, pretending to play the game as long as Joe wanted. He wanted it, too.

Tucking a couple of extra shirts and some underwear into a duffel, he almost walked out the door, but he went back, took the letter, and placed in the bag as well.

“Max will take good care of you,” he told Mandy. 

Max for sure--Mike not so much. Max would blow up his phone when she found the note he’d left her ( _Had to take care of some business. Back as soon as possible. Look after Mandy. -Ryan_ ), but Mike would probably just blow up. He might go back to Strauss’s place. There was nothing Ryan could do. He knew he’d come back in one piece from the compound, and any of the details beyond that didn’t matter.

He had to see Joe. There was no better time than now.

As the letter said, things were about to get interesting. And Ryan wasn’t quite ready to give up his golden-boy status, doling out “I-told-you-so’s” while the city fell into chaos. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe he was a narcissist.

***

Only one of the nutters had walked by the fence during the hour that Ryan had been cached in the pile of deadfall, which meant he’d made an accurate assessment of the weak spots in the Korban compound’s defenses. This particular span of fencing was on flat terrain with relatively few trees, and stretched about a half mile northeast from a place where compound land intersected with a small creek. That would be the more heavily guarded point, if only to make sure that no one wriggled in under the fence via the creek bed. And that no one went out the same way.

According to his research--and to Mandy--the cult didn’t have a whole lot of disposable income, but it was a fair bet that the fence was electrified, so he’d brought tools. When Ryan got close enough, he could see a line of crisped and dying vegetation running in a small channel on either side of the fence’s bottom rail. Ryan smiled. It was one of those glitchy old weed-burners that had fallen out of fashion because they started brushfires at the first sign of drought conditions. 

During his pre-dawn recon, Ryan saw two energizer nodes on the fence in fairly close proximity to one another. There was no way to tell without frying himself which corresponded to which section, so he’d have to disable both. The best way to do that was to take out the ground rods. He pulled a plastic spade, a pair of aluminum oxide ceramic wire cutters, and a pair of heavy asbestos-lined gloves from his duffel. 

Most ground rods were planted parallel to their node. These were in shallow pockets but the earth was tough and full of roots. Ryan had to use his steel snips to cut some of the thicker ones, crossing his fingers that he didn’t hit metal. Once the wires to the ground rods were severed he could use any tool he liked on the fence: no circuit equals no shock.

After waiting ten more minutes, Ryan screwed the suppressor onto the muzzle of his Ruger P97, snapped in a clip full of subsonic rounds, and headed toward the fence. Ryan let one of the severed ground rods fall against the chain link to test if the circuit was still complete--nothing. The clippers were sharp and he made short work of the links, cutting the dead wires for good measure.

It was probably because of the sound of the clippers that he missed the snapping of branches as one of the Korban cult-monkeys approached. He had a white mask pulled up onto his forehead.

The man barely had time to gasp before Ryan stuck the Ruger’s muzzle through a gap in the chain link and shot him in the head.

Ryan pushed hard on the semicircle of clipped wire, opening a small doorway. Just as he was standing up inside the compound, three more figures materialized from behind a ramshackle outbuilding. Two were unmasked, one masked. The masked man held a gun, which he pointed at Ryan. 

“Shit.”

Then the one with the gun swung his arm to the side and blew away the head of the man closest to him in a cloud of red mist.

“Shoot him,” said a calm, familiar voice.

Ryan had too much training to hesitate. He aimed at the other unmasked guy and squeezed off two shots, hitting him in the chest. The man toppled over, sending leaf matter whirling.

Joe Carroll took off his mask. “Hello, Ryan.”

Ryan smiled, lowering the gun. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“You’re not the only one who has an eye on the unguarded spots at our perimeter,” said Joe. “Though I should never underestimate your resourcefulness.”

“You underestimated it before?” asked Ryan, his boots squelching in the rotting forest-floor debris.

“There was no ‘before.’ Things have always been as they are,” said Joe.

“Enough with the cryptic shit,” Ryan said, elbowing Joe in the ribs.

“Ow,” he said. “Poetry is only cryptic to the untutored.”

“You’re not a poet,” Ryan said. “You’re a killer.”

“Same thing.”

“Fine,” Ryan said. “ _I’m_ not a poet.”

Joe reached out and put a gentle hand to Ryan’s cheek. “You are. You are.”

Ryan brought his own hand up and let the pads of his fingers rest for a second or two on Joe’s knuckles. “We should get out of sight.”

“A poet and a pragmatist,” said Joe. 

“Will they come to see what the noise was about?”

“These days?” Joe said. “Doubtful. Gunshots are a lot more common. Celebratory, mostly. Sometimes not. It’s like a bloody third world country. Not that it wasn’t before.”

Ryan laughed.

“Never hurts to be safe, though,” Joe said, walking over and handing Ryan his mask. “Here. Put this on.”

It was impossible, Joe said, to cut a path through the woods to the main house--the one that used to belong to Micah--without being accosted by some fervid cult members. They were always anxious to touch him, speak with him. Ryan would have to stick close to the fence until the house was in sight.

According to Mandy, cult members often wore masks. Another anonymous would hardly be noticed.

Ryan worked his way around the edge of the fence, his boots snapping tender foliage. It was both fitting and eerie to be once again walking masked in the woods to a place where he knew Joe waited for him. 

He tugged off the mask as soon as Joe ushered him through the door, which looked rickety but could be locked from the inside with a heavy iron bolt. The décor, so to speak, was rustic bordering on deprived. Ryan wrinkled his nose. 

Joe turned toward Ryan and put out a finger in warning toward him. “Don’t say a word.”

Ryan held up his hands, biting back a smile.

“Come here,” said Joe.

“You’re not going to offer me a drink?” Ryan asked. “I’m sure they have some sort of rank herbal shit that passes for tea around here.”

“You don’t like tea,” said Joe. “And I don’t like it when you play coy.”

“I’m not,” Ryan said. “Some people have conversations before they tear each other’s clothes off. Especially if they haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Based on my limited experience,” Joe said, offering Ryan a wry look, “it’s typically the other way round.”

“Pillow talk?” Ryan asked, smirking. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

“The very thing,” said Joe. “I promise you pillow talk.”

“People like us don’t make promises.”

“But we are constant.”

“Something like that,” Ryan said.

“I want you,” said Joe.

“What is it the scientists say?” Ryan asked, refusing out of a teasing stubbornness to let arousal diminish his voice just yet. “Something about an irresistible force and an immovable object.”

Joe walked over to him, and Ryan didn’t back away. “I refuse to believe you aren’t moved.” He traced a finger along Ryan’s hairline from the crest of his forehead to his temple. “Look how far you’ve come.”

Ryan grabbed Joe’s hand, stopping its path. “So you’re claiming you’re the irresistible one?”

“Resist, then,” said Joe, placing his other hand at Ryan’s waist. “Prove to me you haven’t found pleasure in giving in.”

Ryan brought Joe’s hand to his lips. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

“No,” said Joe, moving closer, speaking the word against Ryan’s mouth. 

Even with the promise of time, they couldn’t keep the kiss from becoming almost frantic. When they broke, Ryan rested his forehead against Joe’s, and said, “Show me.”

“What shall I show you?”

“Where you made the cuts,” Ryan said, holding Joe’s head firmly between his hands. “I know it was your blood. I didn’t even need to test it.”

Joe smiled. “That obvious, am I?” He kissed Ryan’s chin, the corner of his mouth.

“Show me.”

Joe nodded and backed away. He untied the drawstring on the unflattering lounge pants and let them drop. On the inside of his thigh, just below the line of his thin (probably silk, Ryan thought) boxer briefs were three parallel lines--once neatly drawn with a knife or scalpel but now gone a little ragged with scabbing. They mimicked the lines of script on the letter perfectly. 

Ryan’s breath stopped. His eyes stung. He walked over to Joe, tentative now as if seeking permission, and ran his fingertips along the healing wounds. The inadvertent tremor in Joe’s muscles brought Ryan more undone than he expected.

“Intimate,” he said, mostly to himself.

“It felt a bit traitorous to be impersonal,” said Joe. "Do you forgive me, Ryan?"

Instead of replying, Ryan slid to one knee, taking in Joe’s strong scent and the pinpoints of rusty blood-smell below the surface of his skin. When he laid a kiss at the top of the outermost cut, Joe sighed.

Ryan kissed in a soft, deliberate trail down the span of the laceration, the scab like a seam against his lips. He ran his tongue along the healing skin and Joe shuddered. Ryan did it again and again, leaving a wet and shining patch. Then he reached up to run his palm along the length of Joe’s erection, rising below the smooth fabric.

Joe hooked his thumbs into his waistband and pushed the briefs down his legs, ignoring the drag on the newly sensitized skin of his thigh.

Ryan looked up at Joe, whose expression conveyed no expectation, just curiosity. “Only for you,” Ryan said, and took Joe’s cock in his mouth. 

Joe sighed, then whispered something that Ryan couldn’t make out.

The hand that stroked Ryan’s hair, stopping just short of grasping, traced erratic patterns over his scalp--sometimes firm, sometimes barely noticeable. 

It was not unpleasant, only unfamiliar. The taste, the smell, the heavy weight on his tongue--all of it made Ryan dizzy as he tried to negotiate an act he had never performed. He tried to rely on information from past experiences, on what he liked, only to have any coherent thought shattered by the sounds Joe was making. That alone was enough to keep him going. He took a firmer grip at the base of Joe’s cock and tried to stop thinking.

The flicker in Joe’s muscles became a tremble.

“Ryan,” Joe said. “Stop.”

Pulling back, Ryan ran the back of his hand across his lips and shook his head.

“I’m close,” Joe said. 

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I know.”

“You don’t need to--”

“Shut up, Joe. Just for once. Shut your mouth, huh?”

When Ryan resumed, Joe didn’t try to suppress the shallow movement of his hips. It was eager and strange, but not overwhelming now. 

“I’m--” Joe managed, reduced to quick breaths and single words. “Ryan. Please.”

The fingers in his hair splayed and Joe’s breath washed over him all in a rush as warm fluid filled his mouth. The taste was ten, twenty times stronger than it had been and for the first time Ryan had to battle his instinct to pull away. He forced himself to swallow and most of it was gone. It was only Joe then: satiated, shuddering, humbled even though Ryan was the one on his knees.

He stood, and Joe shocked him by pulling him into a kiss that was almost ravenous. Sharing Joe’s taste between them, as Ryan had done with Joe’s blood in the cabin--the sudden association made him weak-kneed with desire.

“I want to--” Ryan started.

“Yes,” said Joe. “I want you to.” 

“Do you have, uh, anything to use?” Ryan asked, feeling a blush heat up his cheeks for the first time in recent memory.

“I don’t think so,” said Joe, pulling off his shirt. “We may have to improvise.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. “Turn around.”

“I’d rather--” Joe began.

“Shh,” said Ryan. “Trust me.” He ran a firm hand along Joe’s back from his nape to the small of his back, guiding his spine into a shallow arc. Then he knelt again, careful fingertips drawing at Joe’s skin. With none of the roughness he’d used to open Mike up to him, Ryan felt almost hesitant. 

But Joe’s cry when Ryan first leaned in to taste him blasted all hesitancy from his mind. Ryan had done this once before, with a woman. What emerged from curiosity for him seemed mostly uncomfortable for her. 

But this was altogether different.

Joe wanted it, appreciated it--once again as if he were the one at the altar and Ryan atop it. Not the posturing cult leader but the supplicant. It made Ryan feel drunk, better than any piss-whiskey high. The slide of first one then two fingers inside Joe was met with no resistance, so he stood slowly, kissing up Joe’s spine in metronomic contrast to the movement of his fingers. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ryan said.

“You can wound me,” said Joe, his voice tight, “but never hurt me.”

Ryan pushed his fingers in deep. “Again with the poetry.”

“I’m ready,” said Joe. “Please don’t make me wait.”

“Soon,” Ryan said. “I want this to be good.” He continued slowly fucking Joe with two fingers while pushing his jeans and boxers away then spitting several times into the palm of his other hand. Then he withdrew his fingers, leaving the tips just brushing Joe’s skin, and used them to guide his cock. 

“Talk to me, Joe,” Ryan whispered, taking care to move slowly despite the oncoming rush of pleasure. 

“You’re doing fine. You don’t have to be so careful.”

“It’s not…” Ryan said, pushing a little further into Joe to cover his fumble for words. He curled his fingers softly around Joe’s hip bones. “Not ‘careful.’ It’s hard to explain.”

“You don’t need to,” Joe said, “if you’d rather not.”

“I’m no good with words. Better with actions,” Ryan said. At this he leaned against Joe and pressed all the way in. They were still for a moment, warm hands and breath on warm skin.

“Joe,” said Ryan, his chin resting on Joe’s shoulder, speaking the words against his ear. “I want to fuck the way you kill. Want to fuck _you_ like that.”

“Oh, God yes.” 

The shiver that wracked Joe rebounded through Ryan’s body. His fingers flexed. His eyes fell closed. 

“Show me, Ryan,” said Joe. “Show me.”

Ryan put his arm around Joe’s waist, carrying him along as he thrust, slow but purposeful. The air was still and cool in the house, deferential to their movement.

“Can’t--” Ryan said. “Can’t get close enough.”

“Bed,” Joe told him, his voice soft. “I want to see you.”

Ryan pulled out, wincing. He was so hard it hurt. “Go. Hurry.” He kicked away his pants and shed his shirt, agonized haste still not fast enough. 

Joe lay on the bed, legs spread. Ryan went to him, this time shoving rather than easing his cock inside. Joe arched, gasping, then whipsawed back and rose into the kiss Ryan offered him. 

“Hard,” said Joe. “Like before.”

Ryan braced himself, propped up on his extended arms, and thrust with nearly enough force to lift them off the mattress. Joe put his hands up over his head, the heels pressed hard against the headboard. Although he had to fight to keep his arms from shaking and felt the sweat streaming down his face and dripping from his chin into the hollow of Joe’s throat, Ryan couldn’t stop. His pacemaker gave a warning flutter. 

“All these people,” Joe said between breaths, “outside. They’re ants. They’re nothing. Annihilate them. I’ll stand by. And watch.” 

“Joe,” Ryan said, hoarse and pained. “I’m gonna come.”

“Ryan,” Joe whispered. “ _Burn the world to ash. For me_.”

Ryan threw his head back, throat straining, and came hard. His lungs were on fire, his whole body burning him from the inside out. He faltered and collapsed onto Joe’s chest, fighting for each caustic breath. 

“I won’t last,” he rasped.

Joe held him close and brushed the sweat off his brow. “What do you mean?”

“When I die,” Ryan said, his lips against Joe’s collarbone, “I want it to be you.”

“Oh, Ryan,” Joe said. “You think your faulty little heart will kill you?”

Not without effort, Ryan raised his head to look at Joe. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

***

After a few minutes, Joe went to get Ryan a drink. It was water, not any revolting tea, he promised. “The Korban ‘family’ was not big on good liquor--or good anything, for that matter,” said Joe. “That’s going to change with the new regime.”

“Regime, huh?”

“You and I both know the culture here is utterly ridiculous,” Joe said. “But it serves my ends.”

“Immortality?” asked Ryan. 

“A bit of bluster,” said Joe. “People need drama. They thrive on it.”

“I’m calling bullshit,” said Ryan. “I know you.”

“Well, a mention in the history books would be a happy side effect,” Joe said.

Ryan ran his fingers across the gnarled bit of tissue on Joe’s belly--his final gift from Claire. “I think you’re already there.”

“Reputation can _always_ be embellished,” said Joe.

“I’m not a limelight kind of guy,” Ryan said. He ducked and ran his tongue over the scar, making Joe’s breath hitch.

“How is Mandy?” he asked, pushing Ryan away gently.

Ryan laughed. “Out of her element.”

“I’m not entirely sure Mandy has an element. She’s an outlier. A special case.”

“You’re really fond of her,” Ryan said.

Joe nodded. “She makes me feel rather paternal.”

“That usually doesn’t go well for you,” Ryan said.

“At the very least, I’d rather she didn’t come to any harm.”

“She’s bonded with Max a little bit,” Ryan said.

“Max?” asked Joe. “Your _niece_?”

“She’s a hard-ass,” Ryan said. “Just like Mandy.”

“Just like you,” said Joe.

Ryan grinned. “She makes me feel a little paternal.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Heaven help us.”

“How did Micah take it when you took over?” Ryan asked.

“Loudly,” said Joe. “With quite a bit of froth and writhing.”

Ryan wrinkled his nose. “Not really your style.”

“It was poetic justice,” said Joe. “Micah raised a few eyebrows with a random poisoning at a party. It took out a handful of members, including one Mandy was rather taken with.”

“How did _you_ feel about that?”

Joe frowned, disgust written all over his face. “I didn’t know them, and I can assure you if I did they wouldn’t register.”

“Not them,” Ryan said. “Mandy. Her little crush.”

“I didn’t send her away just to deliver my letter,” Joe said.

“I guess I can identify,” said Ryan. “Max is sleeping with Mike.”

Joe’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? I suppose you’ve missed your chance for a _menage à trois_.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Ryan said, shuddering.

“I’ll need a little more time yet.”

“So where’s Emma?” From Joe’s thin-lipped smile, Ryan could see he knew it was a jab.

“Out on another errand,” Joe said. “Very reliable, that one.”

“She’s ballsy. I’ll give her that,” said Ryan. “Guess your errand-running days are over.”

“Oh, I’m not entirely deprived,” Joe said. “Before his untimely demise, Micah asked me to dispatch his wife.”

“Not a tall order for you.”

“A satisfaction, rather, of a need that cannot go unmet.” Joe reached out and traced with one finger the jagged track of the bullet wound on Ryan’s abdomen that had come courtesy of Lily’s people. “Are your needs being met, Ryan?”

“Are you asking if you’re good in bed?” Ryan said with a lopsided smile.

Joe poked at the scar once, hard. 

“Ow.”

“I wanted to inquire about the late Carrie Cooke,” said Joe. “Of _Havenport Tragedy_ fame. I mean, I certainly don’t mind taking the blame for that one. What’s one more drop in a veritable sea?”

“Thank you,” Ryan said softly.

“Always,” said Joe. He leaned over to kiss the corrugated skin of Ryan’s scar. “There. Is that better?

Ryan rolled his eyes.

"I was curious, though,” Joe said. “It was only your encounter with Dr. Strauss that got me wondering. Too much delegation can leave one unfulfilled.” 

“Delegation.” Ryan shook his head, but he smiled at the same time. “If you’re talking about Mike,” he said, “I don’t think he’d go that far. Even if I asked.”

“Good,” said Joe, indulging in a yawn and stretch. “I much preferred to think it was you.”

“Mike’s got something going on the side,” said Ryan. “I think it has to do with Lily Gray, but I’m not sure.”

“Lily,” Joe said, spitting out the name. “I do hope someone guts her in front of her wretched progeny. I’m not ready to write off your Mr. Weston yet, however. It seems you have at least one or two acolytes eager to remake themselves in your image,” Joe said, smiling. The tone was teasing but the words were not. 

“You’re basing that on _your_ followers,” Ryan said. “And don’t tell me you’re still jealous.”

“No, no,” Joe said. “Your presence here has reassured me. I know there’s only one Ryan Hardy. I can’t speak to the perception of others.”

“Once again, that’s your flock,” said Ryan.

“Yours, mine. What’s the difference?” Joe asked. “They’re all pawns.” He stroked Ryan’s neck, fingertips brushing the fine hair at his nape. “Tell me I’m right, Ryan.”

Ryan laid his hand over Joe’s wrist. After a drawn-out pause, he said, “I won’t tell you you’re wrong.”


End file.
